Failure to Launch
by HaiJu
Summary: All those DP/SG-1 fics I never wrote. A collection of possible beginnings that lead to the SG team crossing paths with a certain halfa. Up for adoption!
1. Scenario 1: Danny Gets Left Out

When NASA agents showed up at his front door with a personal invitation, it should have been the best day of his life. Except, the invitation wasn't for him, it was for his parents. And instead of talking shuttles and spacewalks, the two crisply dressed men spent half an hour discussing "deep space telemetry" and ghost infestations. Telemetry, because it was some kind of collaboration project between the Air Force and NASA. Ghosts, because inevitably things in the Fenton household became involved in the supernatural. At the end of the half hour, the black government car drove away, leaving the Fentons with roughly five pounds of paperwork, a very valuable-looking check for an advance sum, and a pickup date at the airport.

"I just don't get it," Danny complained later that night, as his friends helped him with a little extracurricular activity. "Why would guys from NASA come representing the Air Force to get help from my mom and dad?" He dodged an ecto-charged nut that whizzed toward his head. It bounced across the the grass a few times, then dissipated with a sizzle of green energy. The half-ghost floated higher and peered suspiciously into the branches of a nearby tree. "I mean, couldn't the Air Force guys take care of this? Did they really have to get my hopes up?"

"And who has to sign their life away in non-disclosure forms just to visit some outmoded government think-tank and zap a few ghosts?" Sam added, unscrewing the lid of the Fenton Thermos and tossing it to Danny.

"You're forgetting the fact that outside of Amity park, zapping ghosts isn't an everyday thing," A vicious-looking squirrel-ghost launched itself out of the tree, just in time to be sucked in by the thermos. "Maybe they want to keep it quiet."

"So they come to Amity park and hire two of the loudest ghost experts in existence? No offense."

"None taken."

"There's another strange thing," Sam said. "Why bother with civilians at all when they could have called in the Guys in White?" The federal ghost-hunting division wasn't exactly what one would call competent, but they did have government funding.

Danny snorted. "Have you taken a look at their track record? Even my dad's caught more ghosts than they have. Besides, half their tech is just ripoffs of Fenton hardware."

"Point."

"Dude, this reeks of cover story," Tucker said, looking up from his laptop, which he'd set up on a park bench. "DST is legit, but it's been a scientific dead-end for ages." He did some more typing and whistled, grinning. "Rumor has it that DST is a cover for a government division that is in regular contact with aliens. This guy even says there's a confirmed connection between the DST and Area 51."

"What guy?"

"ETisHome22."

"Um, Tucker… Where are you reading this?"

"DStruth dot com , of course!"

"Woah. It has its own alien conspiracy theory website?"

"Are you kidding? Every organization has an alien conspiracy site. CIA, Peace Corps, Jehovah's Witness… You just have to know what you're looking for."

"Isn't that kind of like getting facts from the tabloids?"

"Don't doubt the power of the cybernet, Sam. It represents the collective consciousness of billions of sleep-deprived minds. How can it be wrong?"

Sam rolled her eyes. "I rest my case."

"Come on guys, this is serious." Danny floated to the ground, shifting back to his human form and looking from from one friend to the other. "What if this is some kind of setup by Vlad to get to my parents? Or even the Guys in White, after our ghost tech?"

"What if it's not, Danny? It could just be some random ghosts making trouble in a decrepit old research station, which your parents can handle just fine," she paused. "Well, your mom can, at least."

Danny shook his head. "No way. Nothing in my life is ever that easy."

"Stop being so paranoid, Danny," Tucker laughed. "The whole world isn't out to get you."

"Maybe not _this _world, no…" Danny grumbled. "But pretty much every ghost in the Ghost Zone is just waiting to kick my butt."

"If it makes you feel any better, just go with them," Sam said.

"Hello? They're going to hunt ghosts! Even if I stay invisible the entire time, everything they're carrying will be ghost-sensitive. I'll end up at the wrong end of the Fenton Peeler. They're still trying to shoot, kill, and/or capture me."

"Don't forget dissecting you molecule by molecule."

"Not helping, Tucker!"

* * *

A/N:

**This will not be continued!** This is a small collection of what-if prologues for DP/SG-1 crossovers. I don't intend to finish any of them. If you want to adopt one, please PM me.

SG-1 was one of my favorite scifi series, so I loved the idea of blending it with the DP universe. I tried a couple of different approaches, just writing whatever came to mind. These are the random scenarios I came up with to bring the two groups of characters together.

Any critique would be appreciated!

-Hj

Edit: To shorten editorial rambling. Sheesh.


	2. Scenario 2: Crash Landing

"Unauthorized gate activation!"

Red lights flashed and a siren blared as General Hammond strode into the control room; the room was half-dark, thanks to heavy metal shields blocking the plate glass window that ordinarily provided a view of the Gate. A flurry of clicks and beeps buzzed in the room as personnel adjusted monitoring equipment and computers, barking out reports back and forth. Even the normally imperturable black berets stationed on either side of the door looked on edge.

"What's the situation, people?" Hammond demanded, with a nod to the windows. "Why are these closed?"

"We're not sure, sir," one of the men volunteered. "A wave of radiation was detected, so the blast shields closed automatically. The radiation doesn't seem to be immediately threatening, however—"

"Well, get them open! We need to see what we're dealing with here." He turned to the balding corporal manning the stargate controls. "Corporal, talk to me: Who's dialing?"

"Yessir! It's, uh…what the hell?"

It was a bad sign when the usually composed technician started swearing. "What the hell, what, corporal?" Hammond asked.

"There…is no gate address, sir. It just activated independently."

"That's not possible, corporal."

"I know, sir."

Just then the window's shield retracted. The gateroom was immediately bathed in a lurid green light; there was a startled exclamation from the back of the room. Hammond stared at the gate, which had exchanged its bright blue pool of light for a swirling mass of glowing greens. There were a few moments of stunned silence, and then Hammond turned to the corporal.

"What the hell, corporal, happened to my stargate?"

"We're not sure, sir…it seems to be some sort of energy mass, but the readings are completely different from anything we've ever seen. It…seems to still be functioning as a wormhole, as far as I can tell…" A new alarm began beeping insistently on the monitor in front of the corporal. "If these readings are still reliable, sir, we have an incoming traveler."

"We'll deal with the green issue later, people. Standard bogie protocol: Close the iris! Send a squad to the gateroom. Make sure they have some zat guns down there, I want them to be prepared for anything."

"Yes sir!"

Seconds ticked by, and nothing happened. A few wisps of strange green mist that had somehow escaped the iris swirled in a lazy spiral pattern in front of the gate. The siren and the flashing lights took on a monotonous aspect as they blared on and on...

Then the energy flared to an even brighter green behind the shield, forcing the men in the control room to shield their eyes. A small figure hurtled through the iris and into the gate room. It seemed to be falling, or perhaps flying at a high velocity, arms shielding its head. As its trajectory sped it through the gateroom, the squad opened fire, but the bullets did no damage. The thing's momentum shot it at an upward angle and straight toward the viewing window of the control room.

Though the glass was bulletproof and several inches thick, Hammond found himself moving out of the way—but instead of impact, the alien passed effortlessly through the glass as if it were water—it flew by inches from the general's face, and he felt a sudden chill. He got a vague impression of the alien—small male humanoid, white hair, wearing some form of black bodysuit, eyes shut. Hammond had the feeling that it didn't even realize it'd been shot at.

A blue flash lit the room brightly; the blue light hit the figure, and it convulsed in the air, still moving forward, then crashed with a sickening crack into the far wall of the control room. It slid to the floor with almost comic slowness, like a bug down a windshield, leaving a slightly luminous green stain.

Hammond looked at the man standing in the doorway, a box under one arm and a zat gun still ready in one hand. "Colonel?"

Colonel O'Niell cocked an eyebrow, raising the weapon a little higher. "Somebody call for a few of these?"

The colonel's words seemed to break the freeze the room had been in. The technicians went back to their stations, typing madly to silence the myriad alarms still going off. The black berets ran from their posts at the door to the alien. One of them took a zat from O'Niell and trained it on the humanoid while the other bent down and carefully rolled it over. As he did so, there was a flash of bright white light from the alien, drawing the attention of the already jittery crew.

Hammond turned, dreading the worst. What now? An alien device designed to blow up the base? A plague? A mystical prison? A mind-melt? A million different possibilities buzzed through his head—the less plausible, he'd found, was often the most likely—but nothing prepared him for the sudden change in their prisoner.

"God save us," someone said in a hushed voice. "It's a kid."

Everything strange and alien had vanished, leaving a skinny, black-haired kid in sneakers, dirty jeans, and a white t-shirt with the Cocoa-Cola logo on the front. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, and there was blood seeping from his hair. One of his arms lay at a strange angle, obviously broken. The black beret who was crouching next to him looked up, his dark-skinned face paled to a sickly putty color. "He's hurt bad, sir."

"It could be a trick, General," O'Niell said quietly. "It's happened before."

Hammond slowly shook his head. "I'm not going to make assumptions. He hasn't made any acts of overt aggression; he could be an innocent person, for all we know. Alert medical bay, send a team up here quickly. You," he gestured to one of the black berets. "Arm yourself appropriately and stay within sight of the intruder at all times. Until further notice, he is still a suspected hostile."

"Yessir."

As the gate shut down, a small cloud of the green substance broke off in the gateroom, hung in the air a moment, and dissipated into nothing. "Weird…" the corporal muttered, but he had more pressing things to worry about. Like figuring out yet another alien energy source before it destroyed the gate, the command center, and probably the entire planet. Joy.


	3. Scenario 2b: Singing Slug Silliness

_Note: this is a continuation of the previous chapter. I had no intention of posting it, but** jeanette9a** thought it was funny. This is for you, friend. :)_

* * *

It's strange how your sense of time can give out on you, Danny thought. For instance, when he was in class, forty-five minutes could feel like eons…minutes crawled by like primordial slugs, leaving green slime in their wake…no wait, that was him drooling on his notes. Or during a fight, when seconds burn like wildfires, vanishing in whole chunks of hours and half-hours, missed periods and skipped lunches.

He remembered the portal, which had felt like one of those fights, and yet moved like that primordial slime—like years were going by, but in fast motion, until the slugs had evolved, and developed wings! And advanced weaponry. They had created a cult in which everyone chanted in monotones, and were taking it upon themselves to order the slime-encrusted planet and use it as a launching pad for the tiger club racket…eh, what?

What am I saying? Danny wondered.

His thoughts hadn't been this strange since Skulker had given him that concussion, and he spent the whole night babbling random nonsense. He couldn't remember any of it, but Tucker had kindly recorded it, and liked to play the most embarrassing parts…repeatedly. So had he gotten another concussion? Had he been fighting ghosts? Did Jazz know? If she did, she'd be freaking out—but it was hard to concentrate on such thoughts, especially with the slugs still chanting in the background…it was really annoying, actually. They kept going EEE, EEE, EEE, Almost like… oh.

Danny blinked blearily at the flashing heart monitor next to his bed, which was emitting a steady EEE, EEE, EEE. He was in pain, but it was dull and vague, and his lids felt heavy, like that time he'd downed an entire bottle of Niquil.

"Ugh…what hit me?" Danny croaked.

"A concrete wall, at about eighty miles an hour." A man's voice informed him from the other side of the bed. Danny tried for a moment to turn his head, but decided it was too much effort. He blinked at the ceiling instead, which was an uninteresting whitewashed concrete.

"Geez, is that all? I must be losing my edge."

"Don't crack jokes, kiddo," the same voice said. "Concussion, compound arm fracture, internal bruising, broken ribs…you're lucky you're not in a body cast."

"Yeah, well…I've had worse…I think…"

"Wait till you're off pain meds. It was a close call, Danny."

Danny? How did this random guy know his name? Curiosity was winning out over his exhaustion, and he craned his neck for his first look at the stranger. It was a muscular, dark-skinned man, leaning back in the uncomfortable-looking cheap metal chair with his arms crossed. He looked military—cargo pants, black lace-up boots, and some sort of patch on the shoulder of his button-up shirt. The black beret perched on his head looked military, too, but it also reminded Danny of someone….no way.

"Tucker?" His voice cracked in disbelief.

The man grinned. "Welcome to the future, ghost boy."

Danny thought that over for a moment.

"Okay, I'm going to ignore for the moment that the experiment with the ghost portal went very, very wrong, and I'm probably in waay more trouble than I'd like to imagine. I'm too tired to deal with all that crap. But I have to know one thing."

This grown-up Tucker looked amused. "Shoot."

"Why are you in the military? I would've thought you'd be a huge computer tycoon or something by now."

"You kidding? After all we'd done fighting ghosts, I could never shake the hero bug. So I traded my old red beret for a black one, got into special forces, made myself a reputation for dealing well with freaky situations, and here I am. Exploring alien worlds and fighting snake parasites. Just another day's work for Tucker Foley."


	4. Scenario 3: First Person Fail

So there I was, minding my own business, when this nutcase with a claymore attacked me out of nowhere. The only warning I got was this whistling noise. It's kind of like how a whiffle bat sounds, right before it smacks you in the head.

I dropped flat—always a weird feeling in zero gravity—and twisted around just in time to see this guy's sword slice through the air above me like a helicopter blade.

"Watch it!" I yelped, backpedaling down and away. I know, not too smooth, but I'm still in one piece, alright?

Luckily that kind of swing takes a second to recover from, no matter how big and strong you might be—and this guy would have made the Hulk green with envy—so I got about a second to look at who was trying to kill me. Big guy, wild red hair and beard, angry red eyes. He wore a tattered white shirt and a plaid kilt that clashed nicely with his glowing green flesh.

"Who the heck are you?" I demanded, powering up my fists. He just laughed a booming laugh, which would have been irritating if it hadn't sounded so ominous, and swung his claymore at me again.

In case you didn't know, a claymore is a sword…a really, _really_ big one. Like, a meat cleaver on steroids or something. And man, this guy could swing it, too. The only reason I wasn't just a few more chunks of blood and ectoplasm floating in the green ether was that his swinging arm was just a hair slower than my reaction time.

"Hey, ugly!" I shot up underneath him, grabbing his ankle as the blade parted the mist behind me. "I hope you remembered your boxers!" Seriously. Tucker wore a kilt once in the "traditional" way, and… Ech. I don't want to think about it.

I pulled down hard on his hairy legs, throwing my whole weight into the pull. If we'd been standing on the ground, he'd have done a faceplant. As it was, he went down and keeps going, tumbling end over end, kilt flapping. Well, whaddya know. He does have boxers…with hearts on them. Weird. His trajectory ends with a satisfying crunch against a random floating door.

Physics, one. Random attacking ghost, zero.

…what? Oh, yeah. If the green skin and glowing red eyes didn't tip you off, he's a ghost. Did I mention this was the Ghost Zone? Realm of the Undead, the Other Dimension, accessible from the basement of my house, yada yada. I've been mapping it—or trying to—for over a month now, and it still doesn't make any kind of sense. What's worse, my two helpers, the only other humans to really venture out here, are off on summer vacation. They also happen to be my best—my only—friends. I was so bored that mapping an infinite, dangerous dimension by myself actually seemed like a good idea. So here I am, about to get creamed by some undead guy in a skirt.

Whoops. Ugly was making his comeback, and he looked mad. I could have sworn there was steam coming out of his ears.

"Ye saucy blighter! I'll turn ye into haggus!" Surprisingly, I know what that is. Sam's ranted about it so many times I could probably recite its ingredients in my sleep. I've gotta say, this guy had some scary ideas. Time for tactical maneuvers! I bolted behind the nearest floating rubble.

I bet you're wondering by now how this kind of thing could _possibly_ be my business.

I mean, I'm human, right? Sort of… not really. Long story. Basically, I'm a half-ghost ghost hunter. I protect the human world from all the ghosts that try to, you know, take over the world, brainwash everyone, wreak havoc or whatever. Sometimes I protect the ghosts from humans. It's usually a lot to handle. But I have to say, it's a lot simpler than highschool.

Don't get me wrong, having a ghostly alter-ego definitely has its perks. Flying is beyond awesome. All that other stuff, walking through walls, throwing ecto-energy from my hands, and most especially, going invisible when big ghosts with bigger swords are looking for you can be very, very useful.

Uh-oh. Looks like the angry Scot has angry friends. A couple of hooded ghosts with glowing purple staffs have joined him, and they're spreading out. I don't like the look of those things; glowing stuff isn't too unusual around here, but the way the ghosts are waving them around like flashlights, I get the feeling even my invisibility won't fool them.

I sneak further away, trying to stay mostly behind the ancient, slightly glowing stone architecture. There's lots of it around, for once; I think this place used to be some sort of ghost realm, like the medieval one that Dora rules. Whatever it was, it's breaking apart now. I guess even ghost ruins get old eventually.

* * *

A/N

This explains why I write everything in third person these days. XD

I realize there's no actual crossover occurring in this snippet, but there was a PLAN (meaning a vague idea I was headed toward that may or may not have become a plot). Danny's stumbled into the ruins surrounding a Stargate that was somehow warped into the Ghost Zone. It brought along its now-ghostly Jaffa warriors (the purple staff guys) whose eternal purpose is to defend the gate from anything that moves. Danny accidentally activates it with ghost energy while trying to escape, the Stargate gets overloaded and warps time, space, and reality...landing him in the lap of the SGC. They would then do the typical crossover plot of exchanging notes on weird adventures and beating up a few baddies while trying to get the wayward halfa home.

I have no idea why there's some random Scottish psycho with questionable choice in underwear involved; make up your own reasons.

-Hj


	5. Scenario 4: Clockwork Intervenes

Clockwork was not given to self-contemplation. His task concerned the outer world, with the twists and turnings of the path of time, guided by the thread of fate-a thread which he himself had twisted and respun, guiding the future toward a kinder destiny. After all his task was to mediate between the sister dimensions. Keeping their times in sync was a complex dance, one that required constant corrections.

The time of the ghost zone was stagnant, long-lasting but inconsistent and broken; the living world passed its time in orderly fashion, like beads strung on a wire, but each of these moments was fleeting and soon forgotten. So different in their natures, yet the two must coexist, because life and the afterlife were inextricably linked. All of Clockwork's windows looked without, peering into the past, present and future, monitoring that delicate balance between the passing and the eternal-all save one.

Clockwork paused as he passed by this rough stone frame, which housed a sheet of perfect obsidian, so glossy that its black surface cast back a perfect reflection-or almost perfect. Clockwork noted with amusement that his reflection, while it carried his staff and wore his cloak, shifting in sync as he felt himself move from an infant to a young man once again, it was distinctly female.

The reflection gave a crooked smile and a nod, which he returned. Her smile graduated to a full grin, but even as he watched she faded and was replaced with another visage of the time ghost, this one male, but wearing a robe of pure white that glowed faintly. He too smiled and nodded, before fading into another, and yet another.

It was good, Clockwork thought, to see the differences another time could hold. It was important to remember that his way was not the only route to maintain a universe. That reminder above all was why he kept the mirror in his tower.

Besides, it was nice to see a friendly face. Time guardians had a very lonely existence.

Just as Clockwork moved to resume his work, the mirror changed again, and not one but two hooded figures stood watching. He turned back in surprise to study them closer. They did not smile. This new Clockwork was quite similar to himself, excepting the small beard that his adult and aged forms wore. He looked grim; the edges of his cloak were frayed and there were visible cracks in the time staff. In fact-unless it was some distortion of the mirror-his body itself seemed to be losing substance and blurring at the edges.

The Clockwork of this dimension raised an eyebrow and looked askance at the mysterious second figure. At a word from the reflected Clockwork, the figure raised his head so the light stole the obscuring shadows from under the hood. Burning green eyes stared at him out of a gaunt and desperate face. With a shock Clockwork realized he knew this ghost. Suddenly he was sure that something had gone terribly wrong in that universe. So wrong that Clockwork himself had been unable to foresee it quickly enough to stop it. No, they would need outside help.

"Time out!" he declared, and all the clocks and images in the tower abruptly went still and silent. Then he tapped the mirror with his staff as his double did the same, and the black stone became transparent, rippling out from their touch like water. The other Clockwork stepped through, and after a moment of hesitation the second ghost followed.

"Thank you, brother," the other Clockwork said faintly, leaning on his staff. Up close he looked even more ragged and insubstantial. "I know you risk yourself by allowing us here."

"The Observers find it difficult to monitor my actions outside of time," Clockwork reassured him graciously. "The moment, so to speak, is ours. But nonetheless do not waste it. What has happened to your time?"

"A disaster that I, alas, failed to prevent. I did not find its source until it was far too late. The Ghost Zone has been cut loose from its anchor. It has done terrible damage-all but the strongest willed have lost their form and perished. The ghost zone has been reduced to a formless sea of ectoplasm. Even time has fragmented, and I have no more power over it. My tower has crumbled. Only the mirror remains. Even the Observers have fallen. While that allows me to do as I please," he added with a glimmer of humor, "I fear it is too late for my help to be of much use. Who would have thought that I of all ghosts would run out of time? But before it does, I may have found a slight hope."

"What do you suggest?"

"As you know, this mirror is itself a reflection of a device on the mortal plane. It goes where our ghostly powers can no longer reach. Our chance comes soon-and for that its hero needs a future untouched by the present, and the future needs a hero untouched by its past."

"I see. A swap then."

"My powers are gone-our time moves only forward now. But yours is a bit more lenient."

"Indeed. If I am given the opportunity to use it." He glanced over his shoulder, already feeling the eye of an angry Observer on his back. They may not be able to penetrate his timeless world, but they knew perfectly well that he'd stopped time, and they would very shortly want an explanation for why. "We must be swift and subtle. I will not have the opportunity to explain."

"He will find his destiny. I have faith-if he's anything like mine."

"If he's anything like 'yours'," the third ghost broke in, speaking for the first time, "Then we are all doomed." He had a thin raspy voice, dry and rough as the desert wind. His eyes burned with green fire under the shadows of the hooded cloak, which might once have been white, but now was a dirty green-grey. "Phantom, your great hero, was the one who caused this disaster in the first place."

"All the more reason for him to fix it," Clockwork said calmly.

The other Clockwork gazed at his companion with something akin to pity, putting a hand on the seething ghost's shoulder. "I know this is hard for you, friend, but you can do nothing here. For now you must wait. Even if you have no faith in Phantom, have faith in me-or rather, us." He gestured to include Clockwork. "In time you will see."

The ghost's shoulders slumped in defeat, and he nodded wearily. "There's no choice, I know. Let's get this over with."

"In a moment," Clockwork said, turning to his monitors. "There is a slippery friend I must track down if this is to work." He raised his staff and brought it down on the stone floor. "Time in!"

* * *

_A/N:_

_Man, this one is way too dense. Brownie points to reviewers who catch the Stargate SG-1 connection! __I had entirely too much fun with time references, too. _Again, sorry if the quality's not that great, it's nearly two years old and I only did a quick proofread instead of rewriting it (I'm supposed to be writing TtS! right now, ehehe). I'm not going to tell you too much about the plot behind it because I might actually write this one.

_Thank you for your reviews! I'm glad you've enjoyed these bits of randomness. :)_

_-Hj_


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